A Dream of Righteous Indignation

[T/W The Story is rated X minus]

I decided to try fentanyl to quit smoking. Hypnosis had failed. Grapefruit and prayer by the Mormons had failed. No matter how many times I told them I needed more prayer… they failed. 

Now smoking is not really a problem if you don’t need implants and the orthodontist says that “gums must bleed.” Somehow blood promotes healing and then your gums will surround the female tap of the screw that seats a crown. You will stink less and be able to really hug on those relatives at Christmas. 

Or you can play smash and grab with a girl from Berkeley. The new Berkeley generation doesn't get it… after burning their bras, hugging David the Naked Guy, beating Standford at the certification for course work in Emotional Intelligence, they still don’t get it. 

I go right up to my passion, Tina Stray and say, “I'm gonna need you to lend me those titties. I got an oral fixation “ she says she’s all in about helping me quit smoking, lose 22 lbs, buy a local house and assume gainful employment. 

However…

When I ask Tina Stray to whip out them fun bags at the bar, right after she tries her first mudslide and says she wants to get dirty…Tina says she won't release the sisters in public. She looks around right and left, then whispers, “I might have a client here “

All the more reason to show them you care. Probably half the things people are embarrassed they do would actually get them twice the business at work. If you work for a rhinoplastician… You should pick that perfect nose in public. Bartender? Take a drink. Hostesses should constantly be eating Hostess products with the name of their business stamped next to the Ho Ho or Ding Dong. Everyone must flirt. 

I give Tina Stray the toddler eyes. These are a sort of squint and wink and smile that gets her maternal instincts chirping. She is to push up the shirt, throw down that breast-capturing-shackle and begin nursing her man right over the brass rail that embellishes our bar. She can even do this discreetly by tossing the shirt over my head, continue talking to her girlfriends about the adequate amount of contact cement to use on mixed media art. I DON'T CARE. 

The truth is that galleries hate mixed media because they have to warrant the painting, that it will not collapse for their life of the gallery. As many galleries hope to stay in business, this is a carte blanche and they cannot stop earthquakes. 

So, I’m sitting there nursing an addiction, the bartender is making a face and Tina Stray’s lawyer girlfriend is telling him that public nursing has passed the SUPREME FIK’N COURT. The woman recently learned to use the F bomb (with an I) to heighten her oral power. I get it. 

If you tell a mugger “Please stop,” you better have a syringe of Anthrax. Quiet voices do not get the cheese, or the attention. They don't get equal time on racial awareness. They are banned from the yacht club in three states because sometimes the flags fail and you must yell to avoid an incident. 

After a few drinks, Tina Stray said her nipples were going chafe. I tried to balance out the suckage, to rotate the teats, to name them Roberta and J-wanna but still they would tell their owner that I was creeping and overly attached. 

Now Jenda is quite a friend whether sober or in the buff. She is able to come around and peel my lips by squishing the ears. There is a long puckering sound as Roberta is released into the cold of winter. I crinkle the jaw which was in a semi-sucking state for more than half the hour. Usually my fingers meander at such times. They go exploring the cavernous topography. At that time I did not realize I also had a finger flicking necessity. I thought it was just nicotine and mouth use. But nooooo….

The fentanyl wasn't going to work. I told the dealer at the Red Light Cafe, an historic and lively dive bar in Santa Cruz, that I wasn't able to join him in champagne dreams and cats-tar, or caviar, or kill me twice and burn the body little yellow pills. 

“I mean if you have some Cialis then I can do something with my finger triggers…”

Tina Stray had one eye in my direction and the other was massaging the bar. Making tenderized meat of some fellow’s shoulder. I wasn't jealous yet because she often massaged complete strangers. 

I put the little yellow pill in my mouth, made a grin, took a few steps closer. Full Cheshire crowns, all two story towering, about 152,000$ worth of smile if my dentist was correct. 

She had no clue that I was peaking the yellow love boulder. The generic matron of Viagra, the rent maker, the tent staker… the reason that old men still buy Porsches and say to their riding companion: “Go ahead. Put it in gear. Stick it in. I got five more that go real fast.”

Maybe Tina Stray never dated a man with super hero blood flow. The kind of guy who could advertise for Reebok pump shoes at least once. The man who stays up when all others have gone to sleep. The keeper of the eternal finger…

(It's not really a finger. But sure.)

So I'm thirty years into the devil sticks, the coffin nails, the reason that people get cancer in toes and certain diabetes situations. I cannot sue the good people of RJ Reynolds because it is true that I once tried a Marlboro and though it didn't keep – I know they will blame each other in court for years. 

My grandfathers could find perfectly good traveling companions to get pregnant and not give up their cuban cigarros, their big league snuff, their ‘fine tobacco's that propelled the United States through two world wars. For the meaning that escapes me now is that hemoglobin and platelets is the one reason we will have pure blood to usher in the antichrist.